


The Divide

by JLWatts92



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), The Lord of the Rings (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7994716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JLWatts92/pseuds/JLWatts92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Daniel Radcliffe and Elijah Wood are brothers, caught in the middle of a war between Michael Fassbender and James McAvoy, a war so lengthy it threatens to tear the world in two.  Perhaps with the help of a mad scientist named Tom an edict called Ben and his apprentice, the boys can set things right.</p>
<p>But how can you fix something you don't understand?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Divide

   Elijah stood, toes peeking over the edge of the canyon, looking down at the man who had fallen. Aside from his brother, this was the only man Elijah had seen in more than twenty years, and he had gone and fallen off of a cliff.  
   Elijah had been standing guard while his brother, Daniel, went at it with a wood nymph. Elijah preferred water nymphs himself, not that he had ever been with one--not that he had ever been with anyone. This fact irked him greatly, he was older, after all.    On alert for the Mother Nymph, Elijah was quick to spot a flicker of movement between the trees, and quicker to hide when that flicker crashed through the trees, a man. His hair stuck up at frantic angles, as Dan’s did after a night plagued by terrors, and the shadows around his eyes betrayed a profound lack of sleep. Only this much Elijah observed as the man stumbled through the wood, thorns tearing his skin, burs latching onto his cloak. It hit Elijah with such force then, the realization that this man was barrelling towards the canyon. His body sprung into action, he called something out to Dan before darting into the brush.  
   In Elijah’s earliest memories, what is now the canyon was but a crack in the earth, a disturbance of soil and trees, barely noticeable. It was only because he had been tracking an animal-crawling across the forest floor, examining overturned leaves and disturbances in the soil--that he spotted the crack at all. Daniel hadn’t been able to see it, even when Elijah tried to point it out.  Daniel couldn’t see it until several months later, when it had grown to be half the length of his foot, and swallowed up his toes. They had made sure to slow down in that part of the woods, and still the crack had bested them, taking them by surprise every time it grew, which it did increasingly often. It had long since grown too big to be called a crack, a canyon was the best thing they could think to call it.  
    And now it had claimed the man.

   Daniel finally appeared at his side, breathless, tucking in his shirt. “What in hell, Eli-”  
   The look on Elijah’s face must have been what cut him short. Elijah could only imagine what he looked like, a step away from falling into the canyon, hands trembling, mouth agape.  
    Daniel followed his gaze down to the man. “Holy, holy shit in hell,” he breathed, running his hand through his hair. “What is that?”  
    “A man.”  
    “Well obviously, thanks,” Daniel snapped, “Is he dead?”  
    As much as he didn’t want to believe it, Elijah said, “I think he must be.”  
    “How did you know him?”  
    Elijah was sure he misheard, “I don’t.”  
    “You said his name was Blue.”

 

   The man’s name was not Blue, it was Tom, and he was from the nearby settlement of Hiddlestown--though he spent most of his time in his lab.  The lab stood at the very edge of Radcliffe Wood, closer than any sane person dare venture, not quite close enough to make Tom uncomfortable, not quite.

   Tom had carved the laboratory in the conjoined trunks of three trees when he was 12 and in the thirty years since had spent most of his time there pouring over maps and samples, recording data on instruments he had invented, searching for an explanation for the tremors he had felt all his life.  This is where we would have found him, had we been looking, two days before the fall.

   He moved to the doorway, peered through the trees at the sun as it kissed the top of the tallest tree.  He knelt to the ground, and readied his latest attempt at tremor-gauging technology: some sort of device that looked like a long brass pipe fitted with a scale and a sample container.  Just as the sun slipped out of sight behind the tree, Thomas thrust the pipe into the dirt and counted slowly to four.  The tremor came at the expected moment.  The ground rattled, subtle but clear, Thomas still could not fathom how such a thing could elude everyone’s notice.  The needle on the scale raced from zero to seven, dirt shot up through the pipe and into the sample container, and Thomas let out a laugh that would have led you to question his sanity.  He dashed back inside, cradling the sample and chanting the word “seven” so as not to forget.  He set his device on a rare clear space of table, then found a blank page in his journal and wrote the date and the number seven.  He then set to work comparing his newest sample to the others, consulting observations he had made over the years.

   It is impossible to say how long Thomas worked before he remembered himself and a promise he had just broken for at least the hundredth time.  At least this time he knew for certain he had not blacked out, as he did more often than he’d like.  He pulled on his fingerless leather gloves and his dark, ankle-length cloak.  He threw his pack over his shoulder and made for the door.

He strode purposefully through town, ignoring the fact that most people shut their windows as he passed.  Ideas lit his eyes like fire.  His smile was all at once maniacal and endearing, like that of a child who, having just cut a worm in half for the first time, observes it wriggle in two opposite directions.  Finally, he came to stop at the door of a cottage, not so different from the rest, perhaps a little smaller.  He knocked twice, then three times more.

The door swung open and four dirty faces beamed up at him.  The children to whom these faces belonged broke into a chorus of “Uncle Tom”, as they assaulted him with hugs before inevitably asking what he had brought for them.  He gently pushed them back to step through the door, then reached a hand into his pack.  He produced a metal box, roughly the size of his palm, and presented it to Seer, the eldest.

“What is it,” she asked, cradling it in her hands.

“What it is is not so important as what it holds.  Now, the trick is figuring out how to open it.”

Seer nodded, dutifully accepting her mission.  The two youngest followed her to their room where they set to work solving the puzzle.  Lucian lingered with his uncle.  “You are late,” he warned, “Mother isn’t pleased.”

Thomas grinned and squeezed the boy’s shoulder.  “You leave me to worry about that, see if you can help with that box.”

“Will you tell me what’s inside?”

Thomas shrugged.  “Just a spot of magic,” he said with a wink.  Lucian lit up and raced off to join his siblings.

Thomas slipped into the kitchen where he discovered a plate of food and decided it had been saved for him.  He picked at the meal, bracing himself for his sister’s imminent wrath.  He did not have to wait long, she emerged shortly, a sleepless baby wailing into her shoulder.  Her hair was a mess, her dress and apron stained with dirt and food, her eyes revealed a pained desperation that may never be relieved.

“Who said that was for you?” She asked, eyeing the nearly empty plate.

Thomas only smiled.  “Hello to you too, Sarem.  What’s wrong with the little one now?”

Sarem sighed, “She simply will not sleep. I haven’t had any luck all day.”

“May I try?”  

    Sarem seemed dubious, but she had exhausted all options.  She passed the child to Thomas.  “No experiments, please.  I’d like to keep this one, trouble that she is.”

    Thomas tried not to be offended as he cradled the baby in the nook of one arm.  With his free hand he reached into his pocket and pulled out a music box.  It was crudely made of a dull, rusting iron, but when he wound it, the music that played was clear and beautiful.  The baby fell instantly silent, enchanted by the box and the tune it played.  Soon enough, her head drooped to Tom’s shoulder and her breath deepened.  He carefully passed the sleeping child back to Sarem, who nodded her thanks and took her upstairs.

    Thomas let the music play on as he finished his supper, humming along with the tune.  Sarem returned before the song had finished.  “I don’t know what was wrong with her today.”

    “Could have been the tremors, nearly every hour today.” Sarem shook her head.  Thomas knew, despite her attempts at support and understanding, Sarem did not believe him.  No one did.  He would not let that dissuade him.  He prattled on with enthusiasm.  “I think I’ve finally traced a path.  It seems to originate in Radcliffe Wood.”

    Sarem shuddered at his words.  “Tell me you didn’t go in there.”

    “Of course not, I have to get more supplies first.”

    “Tom.”

    “It’s only a forest.”

    “Everyone knows that isn’t true.”

    “That’s just what they think,” he said, “No one knows for sure.”  Still, he could not ignore the fact that he was terrified.  He had to go, though, he saw it as his responsibility to show everyone what they refused to see.  Besides, he was sure the tremors had something to do with his tendency to black out.  He could not say as much to Sarem, however, she always grew overly worried and uncomfortable when he mentioned his affliction.  Instead, he gave her the music box, kissed her forehead, and went to sit by the fire.  Something was brewing, something big.  He was going to find out what it was before it was too late.


End file.
